


Not Like the Movies At All

by applecore



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Aliens, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, Inflation, Mind Control, Mpreg, Other, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4443674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/pseuds/applecore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Geno's lawn ornament is in fact a disguised alien from outer space who wants to fill Geno up with metal alien babies, and Geno can't imagine why anyone wouldn't be into that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Like the Movies At All

**Author's Note:**

> In case you unaware, Evgeni Malkin has [Alien](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-l1AkErGbCtM/Tt5uTnaWwGI/AAAAAAABzyk/FsxlqdTPUJ0/s512/genoevgenimalkinalienaliens.jpg) and [Predator](http://38.media.tumblr.com/e902d78870025445efcd283aa4cccca6/tumblr_inline_n806qwwgN31sq56qi.jpg) sculptures in his yard, and they are amazing. I have rearranged the geography of his back yard for my own convenience. This also has basically nothing to do with the _Alien_ movies; I apologize to movie purists in advance.
> 
> In addition to the tags, this fic also contains the eating of non-food items and unscientific claims about the uses of colloidal silver.

By the time the statues were delivered, Geno had forgotten how tall they were. He barely came up to the xenomorph’s shoulder. Its height made it all the more awkward to handle, and Geno stepped in to help the delivery guys position it just as he wanted it, guarding his patio from anyone who might venture into the back yard.

Just as Geno and the delivery guy got the angle exactly right, Geno’s grip slipped, and the meat of his palm caught on something sharp protruding from the statue’s thigh. “Fuck.” He put his hand to his mouth and sucked at the bloody cut. Thick, warm iron taste filled his mouth, and he swallowed it reflexively.

The delivery guys were very concerned – that their idiot employer had gotten himself injured on their watch, probably. “It’s fine,” he said, chagrined. “I get stuff, clean up, I’m fine. What about statue?”

The statue also appeared to be fine. Geno let the two guys finish arranging it to his specs without trying to interfere any more, which was surely for the best, and after he’d paid them and tipped them, he went into the house looking for something to put on his cut. After disinfecting and bandaging, he cautiously fisted and unfisted his hand. He hoped it wouldn’t get sore or screw up his shot. 

In the meantime, though, his statues were perfect. He walked all the way out to the back of his yard and towards the house again, just to appreciate the effect they made. He couldn’t wait to show the guys. Only two more weeks until training camp.

*

That night Geno dreamed of darkness – not pitch black, but undulating waves of shadow and light. The shadows engulfed him like the ocean, caressing, enclosing. He breathed them in, heavy and deep. Everything slowed.

*

He woke up at ten, hours past his alarm. He was groggy all through his run. Even breakfast and a shower didn’t help. Maybe he was coming down with something.

At least his hand was fine, when he pulled the bandage off in the shower. It must have been a shallower cut than he thought; it was already a thin pink line of a scar.

He went out for dinner with the Ivanovs. When it came time to order steak, he was in the mood for rare, and it’d been months since he’d enjoyed one this juicy. He’d have to come back to this place again, soon.

*

He dreamed of shadows again. After a time, they shivered and shook, and then out of them stalked his statue, the xenomorph. It circled him, tall and magnificent and haughty. Its tail lashed. Its thighs were corded with muscles of springs, bound by sinews of steel cable. 

It was so beautiful.

It paused, its pipe mouth bent close to his face. It heaved a breath. It smelled metallic, like iron warmed in the sun. Its claws clacked inches from his stomach. 

It could flip him onto his back in an instant. Its claws could run him through. He thought maybe some people would be afraid, but he wasn’t afraid. He breathed deep, of shadows and steel. He waited. He waited.

He woke up hard and aching with it, desperate, too close to do anything but grind against the mattress until he came. His orgasm rolled all through him, from his dick all the way out to his fingers and his ears. He lay panting through the aftershocks, trying to remember what he’d been dreaming of – it felt like hours since his alien had walked out of those shadows, and he couldn’t remember what had come after that.

He fell asleep, wondering, and he dreamed of nothing. When he woke again, it was ten-thirty and sun streamed through his window.

*

He pushed himself through his daily training, still sluggish. He jogged until his head cleared a little – though his dreams were still dark, unremembered – and then went through his prescribed regimen of squats and lunges and planks. 

Afterwards, showered and ravenous, he eyed his fridge with its few take-out boxes full of leftovers, and then he went for his keys. He took himself back to that same steak house he’d visited with the Ivanovs. He ordered their largest steak, rare – “Still bloody,” he told the waiter.

It was even better than the steak from the other night, he thought.

At home, he parked his car in the garage, and as he headed into the house he paused, hand on the doorknob. Then he went inside, through the back French doors, and onto the patio, strewn with a summer’s worth of twigs and detritus. From it he could see the xenomorph’s thick curved bow of a head. That artist was genius, he thought. The statue looked like it might turn its head and look at him at any moment, despite being welded in place.

He came down the stairs onto the walkway and looked the sculpture over again. He ran his fingers over the peaks and chasms of its arm, the smooth plates that linked together to make its bicep, just below eye level. Their surface was warm on his skin: pleasant, inviting. He drew loops on it with his fingertip, and then, curious, he leaned in for a lick.

It tasted of nothing much. Heat. The faintest tinge of metal, like he’d get from accidentally biting his cheek. He licked again, just to be sure. He licked a stripe around the bicep and into the gap between the plates, which tasted of dust and ancient oil.

Then he caught his tongue in the gap, and as he tried to pull it out again, he tore the skin. “Ow, fuck, ow.” He managed to get his tongue back in his mouth without any more damage, but now he did taste iron, red and bloody. “Ow,” he repeated pointedly in the statue’s direction. The statue did not apologize.

He went back to the house, trying not to let his tongue touch his teeth.

Another day, he might have worked out again. Today he stretched out in a recliner in his entertainment room and found a _Fast and Furious_ movie on TV. He always found those soothing: plenty of action, minimal translation required. 

It turned out to be a marathon. In the middle of the second one, he realized it had been a while since the steak. He wandered toward the kitchen, thinking about protein bars and apples and those leftovers in the fridge, ever more unappetizing. 

As he passed the front door, he remembered the bowl sitting on the shelf across from the coat closet, where he dumped change and low bills. The bills got used for tipping the sushi delivery guy, but the change just accumulated. He pushed aside the ones and fives, and yep, there was a good inch and a half of change in the bottom of it. 

Problem solved.

He took it back to the entertainment room and settled in with the bowl on his lap, heavy and not quite stable. He picked up a quarter and considered that it probably needed rinsing, but eh, did water really do anything anyway? He’d always been skeptical. He popped it in his mouth. 

He cradled it with his tongue, letting it knock tentatively against his teeth. Okay, that didn’t feel great. Still, the weight of it in his mouth was satisfying, and it’d probably taste good if his tongue weren’t still so sore. He swished the quarter around a couple more times. The smoothness of it soothed his tongue. Thoughtfully, he swallowed.

Halfway down, it seemed to get stuck. Geno coughed, patting at his throat, swallowed hard a couple of times, and finally it slipped the rest of the way. He couldn’t tell the moment it landed, but he imagined he could. He thought about it thunking as it hit bottom, like a pebble in a pond. That was satisfying, too. Much more than protein bars or days-old pasta.

He lay back with his eyes on the screen and dipped into the bowl again.

*

This time, the alien stepped from the ever-shifting shadows almost immediately. It circled him slowly, strutting, like some kind of bird – like a rooster, its head bobbing near him with each stride.

It didn’t move like in the movies at all, really. They’d obviously gotten that part wrong.

Its tail dragged over the concrete, the nozzle tip twitching. As the alien came around to face Geno, the tail coiled around his ankle from behind – looping, caressing. He shivered. The alien moved on in its circuit, and the tail loosened its grip and fell away.

On the next circuit, the tail rode all the up his thigh, circling it loosely. The tip of the nozzle knocked against Geno’s dick. Geno grunted. It hadn’t _hurt_ , but it wasn’t what he wanted.

What he wanted—

The alien breathed ozone and hot metallic vapors in his face. Its tail draped over his hip. His heartbeat was heavy, slow, like it was pumping oil through his veins instead of blood. His pulse was steady. Inevitable. He closed his eyes.

*

He woke muzzily. His dick was tender, and his boxers were crusty. He struggled out of bed and tried to peel his boxers off, wincing as the dried come took hairs with it. Finally bare, he stepped into the shower and turned the water on as hot as it would go.

When he got out, he was ravenous. He stumbled downstairs and scooped up the last of the change in the bowl and swallowed it all, two or three coins at a time. Now his stomach felt a little better – less empty, with a certain comforting heaviness. He gave the inside of the fridge a single disgusted glance, and then he went upstairs, pulled on something resembling clothes, and reached for his keys. And paused.

They felt so nice in his hand. The car keys were automatic, fobs with buttons and no metal at all, but the house key was metal – what did they make keys from? Zinc? Who the hell knew. He felt like he ought to, if only he looked at the key long enough. If he tasted it, maybe. He thought about it resting on his tongue. Saliva began to pool in his mouth.

But no. A single key wasn’t going to do the job. Get it together, Malkin.

Resolute, he marched himself out to the garage.

At the hardware store, someone asked if he needed help, but he waved them off. It was easier to browse; he didn’t know what he wanted. Rather, he wanted all of it. Just walking into the place made him a little dizzy with the thin, sharp odors of aluminum and iron - iron, that was the most important.

The nuts and bolts aisle was like a dessert buffet. He couldn’t choose. He didn’t know how to start. And it wasn’t fair – he wanted to taste before he bought. He felt like a little boy again, his mother ready to slap his wrist if he dared try and steal an apple from the display.

Finally he grabbed one of the paper bags and filled it from the nearest bin. Washers, it turned out. Steel. He filled the bag and left a few in the bin, because that was just polite. Then iron nuts, here they were, heavy in his hand and full of promise, like candies. Those filled another bag. He eyed the bolts, but he thought about those threaded shafts going down his throat and winced a little. Later, maybe.

Vaguely he became aware of attracting an audience. He couldn’t be bothered to take much notice. 

Finally he hefted the basket from the floor and carried it to the register. The clerk’s eyebrows rose. “Got a big project going on?”

 _Lunch_. But Geno kept that to himself; that was none of the clerk’s business. “Yes. Big project.” After some more consideration, he added, “Art.”

“Ah,” the clerk said knowingly, brow clearing. He rang Geno up without further comment. At least, until he pushed a notepad with the store’s name across the top and said, “Say, do you think you could…?”

Geno swallowed his impatience and signed the pad.

When he got to the car, he couldn’t wait any longer. He dug into the first paper sack and pushed a couple of iron nuts into his mouth. They went down so easy now. They tasted so good. He worked through half the bag before the hollow feeling began to subside and he could start to think again. He shifted to put the sack in the back seat, and the nuts pulled and dragged in his belly, an irresistible weight.

The last stop was quick. He had to look this one up on his phone. This time he did ask the clerk for help, though he stumbled over the words and finally just held his phone up for the guy to see. 

“Aha, colloidal silver! Right back here. It’s great stuff, you know. Good for colds, athlete’s foot, diarrhea, it prevents parasites…”

Geno followed him down an aisle packed on either side with little plastic bottles. He felt like he’d fallen into a Harry Potter movie – powders and potions and magical pills everywhere he looked. But there at the end of the aisle was the clerk holding something actually worth having. “Just be careful to follow the directions,” the clerk said, handing the bottle to Geno.

Geno tipped it to one side, and yellow fluid shifted heavily within. He swallowed; he felt like he hadn’t had anything to drink in years. “Good,” he managed. “Where?” He glanced along the shelves, and the clerk pointed him to the neat little row of bottles. “You have more?”

“Uh. You probably only need one bottle at a time.”

“I’m go on trip,” Geno explained, pleased with himself. “Need supply.”

“Oh! Sure. I think we just got a new case in the last shipment.” The clerk disappeared through a door into the back of the shop, and Geno peered longingly at the bottle. The safety seal was still intact when the clerk came back through the door, but it was a near thing. “How many you want?” the clerk asked. 

Geno eyed the case in the clerk’s hands, and carefully – firmly – he put his lone bottle back on the shelf. “This fine,” he said, gesturing to the case.

“Awesome,” the clerk said, looking a little shell-shocked. “Will that be all for you?”

Shopping had long since lost what little allure it had held when he set out this morning. Geno wanted to go home. “Yes.”

He’d parked around the corner from the front door, and the only reason he didn’t break out one of the bottles as soon as he was out on the sidewalk was because he’d have to set the case down. Instead he made it all the way to the car and wedged the case in the back seat next to his hardware store bags before he ripped open the package, twisted the cap off, and downed a bottle of the stuff.

It was like pouring water into the desert; it wasn’t nearly enough. Still, he felt a little less parched. He unscrewed the caps of two more bottles – for the road – and then headed for home.

*

He spent the afternoon watching movies he didn’t need to think about and eating. Eventually, _finally_ he was full. Still, he found his hand sneaking back into the paper sack every so often for another little snack.

He stopped paying attention to the TV altogether; he didn’t care about the moving pictures anymore. It wasn’t what he wanted. 

The inertial heft of his belly centered him, comforted him. Everything about him was heavy. He dozed.

*

The TV was still playing when he woke. There was a crick in his neck and a keen, desperate ache in his gut. He couldn’t remember his dreams, but he knew they’d been empty. He wanted to cry. Why was he all alone?

Getting up was a struggle. Gravity tugged at him, and his center of balance had shifted - lower, now, seated somewhere in his pelvis. Finally got himself upright, head still not quite clear, that promise of tears still lurking in his throat and behind his eyes. 

He stubbed his toe on a baseboard as he headed out into the hall. He turned a corner and bashed his elbow against a wall. Neither hurt matched the ache sunk deep in the bottom of his gut. 

He pushed the French doors open into the evening and stalked unsteadily out onto the patio, ready to yell or sob, he didn’t know which. Then he pulled up short. At the bottom of the steps, peering up at him, waited his alien. Its tail lashed lazily.

“Oh,” Geno said. He was such an idiot. Of course it couldn’t come to him. It had been waiting for him to come to it. He stumbled down the steps – standing on the last one, he was nearly eye-to-eye with the alien. “Now?” he asked, barely daring to hope.

Gently it chittered its assent. 

“What do I do?” 

Its clawed hand closed around his bicep. It exhaled in his face – warm, just like in his dreams, but richer, hinting at metallic compounds beyond Geno’s imagining. The alien tugged. Geno took the last step down and followed it, barefooted, off the concrete walk and onto the lawn.

The alien put its hands to Geno’s shoulders and pushed him to his knees. It towered above him, magnificent, like in his dreams. For the second time in twenty minutes he wanted to cry. The alien lifted an enormous splayed foot to his chest and pressed him down to the grass. Willingly Geno went. His hips hit the earth, and the impact jarred awake that fierce ache he’d almost forgotten about. Suddenly it consumed him, gut and chest and balls.

“Please,” he said. He didn’t know what he was asking for. “Please.”

The alien hovered above him, a black silhouette against a graying evening sky. Its tail slithered over his chest, and then the tip of it reared up to face him. It wasn’t quite a nozzle anymore, he noticed. It looked—different. He cautiously raised his hand and touched the segment of tail lying on his chest. Above him, the alien heaved soft breaths, but it held still, and so Geno began to stroke. The tail felt different, too – smoother, less sharply articulated, its ridges rounded over like skin.

Well, obviously. The metal sculpture had been a disguise, after all.

Geno rubbed his thumb over a particular knobby ridge, and the alien hissed. Geno froze, horrified. The nozzle shifted, and now through the gloom he could see how it glistened. It shifted closer to his face, and then the alien was again very still. Waiting. Obediently he opened his mouth, and the tail slipped inside. 

It felt bigger in his mouth than he’d have thought. He closed his lips around it, closed his eyes, sucked at that wetness that tasted of pennies and iron bolts and blood. The alien hissed again, and Geno sucked harder, smug. He stroked the ridged tail, letting his fingers catch on the knobs, feeling the alien shiver under his fingers and between his teeth. Each shiver brought a new rush of fluid on his tongue, and greedily he swallowed. He was so thirsty.

Then suddenly the tail pulled away, and Geno’s mouth and hand was empty. “No!” He tried to sit up, but the alien pushed him back down onto his back. Carefully it clawed at his stomach. No, at his sweatpants. “Oh,” he said. Again he tried to push himself upright, and this time the alien let him. He shoved his sweatpants down, then his boxers – all the way off, both of them, until he could kick a leg free.

Need throbbed in his belly with each breath. “Please.”

His alien chittered softly. It pushed him onto his back once more and stood astride his sprawling legs. Its tail slid over them with purpose, and then he felt it, what he’d waiting for, what he wanted so badly: the blunt tip of his alien’s tail, prodding at his ass. 

He realized with a start that his ass was wet - wetter than the oily drool from the tip of the alien’s tail really explained. He reached down between his legs—“I’m just checking, it’s okay, it’s fine.”—and come up with something slickly viscous between his fingers. He sniffed. 

It smelled of metal. It clung to his skin like oil. He shifted his hips minutely, and now he could feel it: a reservoir of the stuff up his ass, waiting.

The alien was not waiting. It prodded at him again. He scrabbled for leverage as he spread his legs wider. “Okay, now—”

It plunged in. 

Geno yelled. The tail sank deeper, pushing a groan out of him. A ridge bumped something that shot sparks all up Geno’s spine. He fisted his hands in the grass, catching dirt under his fingernails, and then he arched his back with another shout as the tail just kept going deeper. Had it been that long before? He gasped his breaths. He stared upward, unseeing, barely aware of the alien’s blunt head hanging just above him.

The tail was deep in his innards now, where nothing but shit and bile was ever meant to go. The alien hissed and thrust its hips, and more of its tail disappeared between Geno’s legs. He moaned weakly. It felt like his entire gut was shoved full of alien. It was all he could do to breathe through each new thrust.

Gradually Geno realized that the thrusting had stopped. The alien breathed heavily over him, but its hips and tail were still. Reflexively, he tried to shift his weight, sit up, but all that did was hurt. He was pinned by the endless coils of tail. He could do nothing but flop his hand around, with nowhere to put it.

A blast of metallic breath warmed him. He looked up, and there was the alien’s mouth, hanging inches above his face. A shudder ran through it and all down the length of its tail, inside him. Then another. He lifted a trembling hand to the side of its long, long face. It chittered shortly, and then its head snapped back through another shudder. This was one stronger; Geno could feel it in his belly. He braced himself for the next one, rode through it, and gasped for breath on the other side. 

He’d split open, he thought. The sun would rise tomorrow, and his burst gut would gleam like chrome in the morning light.

The alien convulsed, from its shoulders starkly outlined above him and on down, down into him. He shut his eyes and clenched his teeth. He could feel nothing but the alien’s tail as it gripped his insides in an ever-tightening knot. He was going to tear apart—

The awful tension in his belly relaxed. His head fall back onto the lawn as he gasped in relief. The alien hissed in his face, and that’s when he noticed something new: a creeping, insistent pressure in his gut. “What—?”

The alien made a sound Geno had never heard before. It crooned.

“What is it?” he asked weakly. He slid his hand over his bare stomach. Down low, below his belly button, his skin was growing taut. The alien crooned again, soft and sweet. The pressure continued to build, higher now, pushing up into his diaphragm and shortening his breath. Filling him – filling, he realized, that empty lonely terrible ache. 

He closed his eyes again.

The fullness within continued, pressed outward. Moment by moment, the hand lying on his belly rose. Idly he wondered how much longer it would go on, how much more he could be filled. Perhaps it would go on forever.

Gradually he became aware of a peculiar gliding friction in his ass. It took a while longer to think of what it was: the alien’s tail, leaving him. Oh. It must be finished, then. That was nice. He stroked his belly, and he almost didn’t recognize the feel of it under his fingers. The skin was stretched drum-tight. It was rounder, too, than he remembered. Dimly, he wondered what it looked like. 

He fell asleep.

*

Geno woke to sunshine on his face. He opened his eyes and then closed them tight against the sun. He yawned - widely, but on a shallow, unsatisfying breath. Grunting, he rolled over so he could get up, off the—ground?—but there was something in the way. Cautiously he squinted.

Oh. It was him that was in the way. Him and his belly, globelike and palely pink. He planted his hands in the grass and pushed himself upright, but sitting was difficult, too. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. He spread his legs wide to give his belly room, and he cupped it with both hands. It swelled well beyond the spread of his fingers, aching with a dull, de-centralized ache. It was so tight that it hardly felt part of him anymore, but still deep in the pit of his gut Geno felt something he recognized: satisfaction.

Fuck, look at him. He laughed, skating his fingers over the surface. He collapsed back against the grass, holding himself.

After a while he thought to look around. His alien stood a few feet away, frozen in the daylight, in exactly the same pose as the day it arrived. Geno wriggled across those few feet of grass on his back and poked at a long metal toe. 

He wanted to sit up. He crawled a little farther and carefully shoved upright, bracing his back against the low concrete wall at the bottom of the stairs. A twig was sticking in his bare ass; he dug around beneath himself until he managed to find it and pull it out. Finally he relaxed, his legs open to the back yard, his hands on his belly.

Fuck, he was huge. Full of—babies, obviously. Metal alien babies. That’s why there was such a weight pressing on his hips, pulling on his lower back. And his lungs – he still couldn’t breathe quite right.

Cautiously he explored. He laughed again when he discovered his belly button poking out, a fleshy stub. There was no room left in him for luxuries like an innie. His fingers dropped lower, and, oh. The underside of his belly – it wanted to be touched. He traced a finger along the crease where his belly swelled out over his dick. He pressed his fingertips in gently, massaging, and shivers of pleasure-pain spread just under his skin. He pressed deeper, and stabs of a good kind of hurt burrowed into his gut. 

His dick was getting into it, too. He gripped it with one hand and massaged his belly with the other, and there was a child’s game like this, wasn’t there? Could he pat his head and whistle at the same time?

He could do this, anyway. He pressed the heel of his hand into his gut and nearly choked at the radiating pain. Echoes of it throbbed all the wait up his dick, and he didn’t remember getting off on this kind of thing before, but he didn’t know why, because now it was irresistible, overwhelming, the best thing he knew how to feel.

He came in white spurts along the underside of his belly. He collapsed back against the low wall, gasping. 

It wasn’t very comfortable, really; his ass was starting to go numb. He shoved himself just as far as the grass, and he curled on his side, the side of his belly resting on the ground. He dozed.

*

He woke again. It was hot, now. His skin was pink, and he wondered about sunburn, though he didn’t feel burnt. He crawled over to shade anyway. His hanging belly didn’t quite reach the ground, but the grass tickled.

He got himself off – his entire belly seemed to be more sensitive now, more ready to radiate delicious crackles of pain at the slightest touch. 

He slept.

*

The third time he awoke, he lay awhile trying to place the foreign discomfort he was feeling. Finally he recognized it as hunger. He laughed again – who’d think someone so full could be hungry? But he was. Thin, hollow emptiness ached in his throat.

He sat up. The pink of his skin had faded, so that was nice. He eyed the distance to the house, to food. It would be a long crawl.

He rolled onto his knees. He put a hand to the tree trunk, braced himself, and heaved himself up. He had to lean against the tree while he shifted on his feet, searching for a position that would even out the enormous weight he was carrying. He paused a moment to pat it, just because he could. Truly he was very impressive. 

Finally, he ventured away from the tree. One lurching step, then another. He kept one hand under his belly and another windmilling, fighting for balance. It was easier once he made it to the steps; he could hold onto the railing. Easier still once he made it in the door, because now there were walls.

Finally he arrived in the kitchen, where the last of his hardware store purchases were sitting. Next to it was the remaining half-case of colloidal silver. Suddenly he realized how dry his mouth was. He twisted the cap off a bottle and chugged the whole thing without taking a breath, and he felt a little bit better.

He wanted to sit down right there on the kitchen floor with his sacks of washers and nuts. For a moment he considered it. But his alien was out there. Here he was all alone.

Swallowing back his hunger, he loaded up a grocery sack with as much food and as many bottles of silver as it could take without tearing. Slowly he made his way out to the patio again. At the bottom of the steps, he gave up, exhausted and starving and newly horny. He settled on the last step and opened up the first paper sack his fingers fell on.

When he was full – it didn’t take long – he stroked himself until he came, and then he lay back on the steps and let sleep take him.

*

He was bigger. He peered sleepily at his round, round belly, and he was positive there was more of it than before. And it made sense; he’d fed it, after all. He petted it gently. “You’re all growing so big. Soon I won’t be able to move at all, you know.”

He wondered how long that would take. He shifted his weight, and he thought, not long. He wasn’t sure he could stand up now if he tried.

His stomach hurt, he recognized vaguely. It hurt a lot, fiercely, so deep that it was a kind of numbness. His back, too. He didn’t mind, though. His dick didn’t either. He felt like he was fizzing on the edge of orgasm all the time now. Getting off was easy. He barely needed to touch his dick; he only needed to press his hands into his belly. He did it over and over again until he got bored, and then he ate, and then he slept. 

He woke again at dusk. He was bigger still. He couldn’t possibly have moved. He could reach all the way around his belly and still clasp his fingers together, but barely.

A sound startled him out of this discovery – the scratch of metal feet on pavement. He looked up, and his alien loomed over him. “Hi,” he said wearily. He was hungry again, but he knew he couldn’t eat more than a handful of anything. Even getting off didn’t sound like relief anymore. 

The alien leaned low, its breath brushing the hairs on his skin. It crooned softly.

“Yes,” Geno said. “They’re all here. All safe.”

The alien crooned some more. It made Geno think of whales. It nudged his stomach with its mouth, and that slight pressure was enough to flood heat to his dick. Geno gasped. “Yes,” he said. “Again.”

The alien chirped – maybe it was a laugh. Aliens must laugh, right? It prodded at him again. Then it brought lifted both its hands and rested its long nails on Geno’s belly. The tickling pressure fizzed across his skin and directly to his dick. Tired as he was, he couldn’t help but lie back against the steps and laugh. “More like that, a little more. Yes, like—” He couldn’t reach his dick from this angle – from any angle, probably – but then he felt a cool, unyielding touch running along it, and that was enough to take him over.

The alien made a pleased, burbling sound, and Geno opened his eyes. “Yes, yes. Very nice.”

The alien’s tail coiled around Geno’s ankle and tugged.

“Now?”

The alien chirped. Now. Geno sighed.

It was a bumpy, endless journey to the bottom of the stairs. Finally Geno lay sprawled across the concrete, one heel on the grass. He panted; he couldn’t catch his breath. At the alien’s prodding, he opened his legs. 

The alien pushed inside him. It felt far more impossible now than it had before, because he was so full. There was no room in him for alien tails. But it didn’t go far, and it took only moments before he felt something the rush of something wet. He gasped at the cold, and then he gasped again when a cramp seized his gut. 

As suddenly as it came, it was gone, and he panted in relief. Dimly he noticed the alien’s tail sliding out.

Then the cramp came again, stronger this time, like his entire belly was in a vise. He groaned through it. Before it was even over, metal claws pushed under his armpits and pulled him suddenly, dizzyingly to his feet. He tried to fall, to return to the solid earth, but the alien wouldn’t let him drop below a crouch.

The cramps came like waves in rising tide, one hardly receding before the next one gripped him.

He needed to take a shit. He needed it more than air, than blood, than anything. He cursed and yelled and bore down for a moment that stretched on endlessly. And finally, finally he pushed something from him onto the grass. For a moment he felt something like relief.

The alien crooned again. It didn’t let him go, but its tail whipped around his legs, and then from just behind him, something chittered back.

“Oh,” he said. He tried to twist around, to see it – his baby. But the alien only gripped him tighter, and then another cramp came, and he forgot.

It kept on like that: cramps and pushing and brief relief, and again. He lost count. He forgot the time, the year. He forgot his arms; they were numb anyway, blood flow blocked by alien’s the tourniquet grip. Wetness poured down his cheeks and dripped from his chin.

He thought his vision had gone funny when the alien finally laid him out on the ground. Then he realized that grayness in the sky was dawn.

His alien swung its alien head over him. It made noises he couldn’t interpret, could never have interpreted. It blew a hot breath on his face. Then it turned away, and when it turned back, it had something in its hands – something black and glistening and squirming. In the pre-dawn light, Geno couldn’t make out its shape.

Curious, confused, he tried to reach for it, but his arm only flopped nervelessly at his side. He tried to say something, but his throat rasped wordlessly. 

The alien chittered, and then the thing in its hand chittered, too, higher and sharper. Something slid over Geno’s along the side of Geno’s face – the alien’s tail. Then it chirped one last time, and it stepped out of his sight. Another moment, and the last noise of it was gone.

*

“Geno!”

Geno came to and thought maybe he was dead. There was an afterlife, and he was in it, and someone was calling his name. 

Footsteps pattered on his patio steps, and then a shadow loomed in his sunlight. “Geno, what the fuck?” It was Sid, here in the afterlife with him. That seemed – unexpected. “What the fuck, man?” Sid’s hands closed around him - warm, with soft warm fingers. “Did you party hard or what?”

He’d been hit by a truck, he thought. A truck had crashed into his back yard and driven over him until there was nothing left but this pulp of pain and aches.

“Say something,” Sid said, sharper.

Geno thought hard. He worked his mouth, and finally he croaked, “Sid.”

“Yeah. Fuck, have you been out here all morning? You’re already burnt.”

Geno didn’t burn. He hadn’t. When? He hadn’t, he knew that. But then Sid touched his shoulder, and Geno hissed.

“Let’s get you inside,” Sid said. He gripped Geno’s arm – Geno hissed again at the burn – and pulled, and somehow Geno found himself upright. He was naked, completely bare. Dirt and grass was embedded in his knees. And his stomach—

As he passed a hand over his belly, he remembered. He gasped, jerking from Sid’s grip to look. The alien statue was gone. He twisted, squinting through the morning light to look all around him, but the alien was nowhere in sight.

He felt a pang in his chest. He peered down at himself, now flat, as if that impossible fullness he remembered had never been. He _felt_ it, though. Fuck, he felt as if he’d wrenched every muscle in his body. And in his gut there was a burgeoning hollowness that he didn’t think breakfast alone would satisfy.

But Sid was still crouched by his side, frowning. Geno let Sid pull him slowly to his feet. “Oh, look,” Sid said. “There’s your sweats. We’ll get them later, I guess. Were you even wearing a shirt?”

Geno thought about that for a long, long time. Finally, carefully he said, “No.”

Sid huffed. He dragged Geno slow and stumbling up the steps. Geno was grateful they were so shallow. At the top, Sid left him to go open the door, and Geno braced himself with a hand to the wall. His nails looked funny He peered closer. His fingers were pink, but the beds of his nails looked…smoky. Almost blue.

The hollowness in him yawned wider, and for just a moment he let himself remember what satisfaction had felt like: so round and heavy and full. Complete. 

“Come on, G,” Sid said, taking him by both arms. “It’s water and lotion for you, and then you can finish sleeping it off, eh?” 

As Sid manhandled Geno inside, Geno threw one last glance over his shoulder and down the steps. The other steps. His Predator statue still stood there, waiting.

THE END


End file.
